Chpt. Three: (Sine Language)
The bastard was right. They wouldn't have believed her- she doubted if they would have believed her if she had pointed out the nose on their face, at this point. Too much had happened, for them not to question her antics…
But she swore to god, there was a corpse using her shower.
Begrudgingly, she had eventually thrown the towel at the door and stormed off, sitting in the living room with an extra clip on the coffee table for good measure. Olivia wondered if she were just being stupid- surely he'd just shower and leave, and she'd be sitting and twiddling her thumbs with another bogus story to tell the people at the hospital when the patty wagon came to haul her off. But there was little else she could do, than be on her guard and hope for answers.
She looked up from contemplating her situation as he appeared in the hallway, rubbing his ear dry. He carried with him his shirt and jacket, and appeared to have forgotten to shave, "Thanks for the towel," he said with a smirk.
"Don't mention it," Olivia grumbled, glaring.
"What's for breakfast?" Peter asked.
"I don't know. What do you eat? Brains?"
He laughed, "I'm not a zombie. And don't go around saying things like that, people will start to talk," Olivia did not find amusement in his sentiments, and his smile faded, "listen, I'm sorry. I'll get out of your hair, okay? You can just forget all of this happened, alright?"
"Oh, really?" Olivia questioned incredulously, "Oh, why thank you. Thank you so, so much, I really appreciate it. Because it would just be hell, if I didn't go on wondering if I'd released some sort of maniac-"
"And I'm not a maniac. I just-" he stilled, looking as if he were listening, "do you live with anyone?"
"What?"
"You don't live with anyone. That noise…" he dropped the towel, starting for the door.
Olivia met him there, a gun to his jaw, "Where the hell do you think you're going?" she growled.
He looked down at her, his eyes steely, "get out of my way!" he hissed. Olivia saw now, at closer inspection, that the bullet hole in his head had all but disappeared. She was gaping as he pushed her roughly to the side, slamming open the door, "Alright, you son of a bitch, where are you?!" he cried, coming to a halt in her gravel driveway, "get out here, god damn it!"
"Hey!" Olivia yelled, following him out, "Stop!"
"Back off!" he barked at her, holding up a finger in warning, and Olivia stilled, swallowing. His entire demeanor had changed entirely, like a shark hitting the sent of blood in the water. He returned his savage gaze to the surrounding undergrowth, "September!"
Olivia stepped back in alarm as a figure seemed to appear out of thin air, stepping out from behind her Jeep. His hands were held away from his body, palms showing, "I'm here," he said calmly.
Peter crossed the distance between them in a matter of seconds, grabbing September by his dark collar and slamming him back against the side of the vehicle, "Where is he?!" Peter demanded.
"I can't tell you," September answered, still calm as his hat slipped and fell from his bare head.
"But you can put a bullet in my skull?!" Peter demanded.
"I can't tell you because I don't know," September said firmly, "I can't find him."
"So he's dead?" Peter questioned, his grip loosening slightly as he eyed the stranger with cynicism.
"I didn't say that. I said that I have been unable to locate him," September clarified.
"You can find anyone, September- it's what you do. He's dead, or you're protecting him," Peter growled, "and you're breaking the rules of engagement."
September was the picture of ease, even as the top button of his shirt popped loose, "You've gone to far. Your lapses are getting worse, you cannot control them."
"Because I'm getting closer! Every damn day, I'm closer to killing that bastard!" he released Septembers' collar, "Find him, September. Find him, tell him that I'm coming. And this time, you won't be able to stop me." Peter turned on his heel, facing Olivia. She recoiled slightly, her grip on her gun tightening. If she had to shoot, she had to shoot… and she'd make sure he didn't survive.
"Don't touch her," September said quietly, and Peter froze.
"Or what?"
"Prove to me you're still worth saving, Peter Bishop. Spare her. Prove you're still human," September stooped to retrieve his hat, "It's not such a difficult request."
Peter considered a few moments, and snorted, "For your information, I was only going to borrow her car."
"What?!" Olivia stammered breathlessly.
"You want to know what I am, don't you?" Peter questioned darkly, "what better way than to see what I was born to do?"
xXx
Astrid slept only three hours before her early lunch shift at the café started. She had enough time to shower and change before she caught the bus down to the gas station, and walked about a block to 'Rachel's Café'.
Her screen door banged shut as she skipped the last, creaky steps to the dirt pathway to the driveway, and her neighbor, an elderly woman by the name of Mrs. Barry, called to her from her tomato garden, "Are you going to work, Astrid?"
"Yeah," Astrid called back, moving one of Mrs. Barry's numerous cats from her wooden gate, "I'll see you when I get back, okay?"
Mrs. Barry leaned on her garden rake, shaking her head, "You work yourself to a frazzle, child. You need a man to take care of you-"
"Yes, thank you for the advice from the pioneer days, Mrs. Barry," Astrid called back. She wanted to skip the prohibition-era small talk, and added, "I'm late!" as she slipped quickly between the tall wooden fences that separated them and disappeared.
It was talk like Mrs. Barry's, however caring it may have been, that had kept Astrid stifled, in this town. Had thinking not evolved? Was she not allowed to simply live her life free of their stifling, out-of-date-expectations?
A school bell was ringing somewhere in the distance, and the bus, as always, was nearly empty, and she watched the small, antiquely-charming shops pass in the bright, mid-morning sunlight. Whelps' Ridge was a popular tourist destination, in the summer, but in the off season…
Astrid sighed, propping her cheek on the heel of her hand as she rested her forehead on the window, letting the vibrations reverberate in her skull. The bus slowed to a halt at the end of the block, and she ignored it, wondering if perhaps she could sleep past her stop… or maybe the driver could loose control of the bus and drive them all off a cliff.
Her eyes snapped open as there was a knock at the glass, and she blinked, blurry-eyed, at the smiling, bruised face before her, "Dr. Bishop-?!"
He waved jovially as the bus set into motion again, and Astrid turned backward in her seat, watching his limping form grow smaller in the distance, and she could see a bunch of red tulips tucked into his side bag beside a protruding French bread roll and newspaper before the bus turned a corner and he disappeared.
She turned forward in her seat, frowning. Walter Bishop- or, William Bell?- certainly was different from the daisy-plucking, prehistorically-opinionated people she had dealt with her entire life. Whether or not this was a good thing, she had yet to decide. She delved into her bag and drew out her ipod and ear buds, settling back in her seat to ignore the world.
Her shift started without comment as she tied her red apron around her front, punched in her time card, and ran a load of iced-tea glasses through the sanitizer again. A few tables later, she approached a solitary patron in a booth beside the front window, "Welcome to Rachel's Café, my name is Astrid. Is there anything I can get you?"
"What would you suggest?" Walter questioned politely, folding his menu and looking up at her quizzically.
Astrid blinked for a few moments in shock. She hadn't recognized him without the dirt and or his broken glasses, more or less with the warm smile he gave her now, "Oh! Um, hi, Dr. Bishop- or, Walter, I guess. It's nice to see you out and about…"
He raised a hand to touch the band-aid on his forehead in a small, twitchy act of self-consciousness, "Yes, well. If only for a bit, I'm not feeling up to much. But I am hungry- is there anything you could suggest, for my brunch?"
Astrid considered for a few moments, "Well, the pancakes are pretty good- what? What is it?" she questioned, as he was chuckling softly.
"Ah. It's only that you offer boysenberry syrup. But do, go on."
"Anyways, I'd only keep away from the French dip sandwich. The rest of the menu is alright."
"I once spilled French dip sauce on my tuxedo," Walter was musing as he looked over the menu a last time before he folded it shut, handing it to Astrid with a smile, "Halloween, you know? Anyways, I think I'll have the pancakes, as you've suggested, and a cup of coffee. Full stack, if you would."
Nodding, Astrid jotted down a quick 'full stack+ coffee' on her small notepad, "What kind?" she asked, "Of Pancakes, I mean. We've got strawberry, blueberry, banana walnut…"
Walter hesitated, "Do you have chocolate chip?"
"No, sorry."
"Hmm. Well, old fashioned flapjacks, if you would," he sat back in the booth, drumming his fingertips on the glossy wooden tabletop in anticipation as his eyes strayed to the bright morning outside the glass window. Astrid departed from his tableside, making her way down the narrow aisle toward the counter. She thought that perhaps she could hear him humming something, before her attention was suddenly consumed by a new arrival in the café.
The door bell jingled as the door shut, and no one else seemed to notice the strangers' appearance, however bizarre his tall, dark frame in the doorway was to Astrid. His eyes spanned the eatery in one sweeping motion, seeming to memorize every detail as he removed his black fedora to reveal a stark lack of hair on his head and features, and he held the hat to his breast as he continued inside.
Astrid stared as he passed, sparing her only a quick, dismissing glance. He came to a halt before Walter's table, and his voice was soft and quiet, "May I sit here?"
Walter looked up, and to Astrid's bewilderment, smiled warmly, "Certainly, September."
Astrid was snapped back to her senses as the kitchen bell chimed with a quick call of "Order up!", and she hurried to collect and distribute the orders. From the corner of her eye, she watched to odd pair, speaking in quiet, civil tones too soft to decipher accurately. She nearly spilled the drink she was pouring as the bald stranger leaned across the table to kiss Walter's ear. Then, abruptly, as Astrid was working up the courage to go over and ask if he wanted anything, he rose to his feet, bid Walter farewell, and departed from the restaurant.
Astrid gathered Walter's order and took it to the table, settling it before him, "here you go," she said brightly, and set a small plastic thermal pitcher beside his plate, "and some more coffee."
"Thank you," Walter said, grabbing up the syrup and beginning to unceremoniously smother his pancakes. Next he moved to pouring it into his coffee, "This all looks quite delicious…"
Astrid kicked herself in the ankle and blurted out her comment, "I saw your friend," she said.
"Yes. He has no eyebrows," Walter conceded cheerfully, pointing to his own as he cut an extra-large bite of pancakes, then wolfed it down. He licked syrup from his lip and set to work again.
Astrid looked up at the counter, then around at the patrons. At last she sat in the booth across from him, where the stranger had been, "Who… who was he?"
"Just ask you've said- my friend," Walter dunked his bacon in his sugary coffee and ate it, "I'm only surprised that you've paid him any mind at all. People tend to ignore him, the poor fellow. Turning on their sprinklers at inopportune times, things like that. He doesn't like barbeques, either."
Astrid frowned flatly, "What?"
"Astrid! What are you doing!?" her manager demanded.
"S-sorry!" Astrid stammered, scrambling to her feet and smoothing down her apron. She was stilled as Walter touched her wrist.
He was looking up at her seriously, "It is best not to ask questions, miss," he said. He released her and returned to his pancakes, nearly finished, "I'm assuming you work two jobs to keep yourself occupied, is that it?"
"Well…" Astrid said uneasily.
"Astrid!" the manager reprimanded again, and she had no choice but to scamper back to her station without giving Walter a proper answer, "don't let me catch you slacking off again, Farnsworth!" was hissed into her ear.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," she muttered back. Walter left her another ridiculously hefty tip.
xXx
